Ending.

I try to tell her that I am good. That I’ve tried to be good, but know I shouldn’t tell her these things. I shouldn’t talk but just let her keep doing what she is doing. We have moved away from the piano now and are on the floor and she is on top of me, lifting my shirt up and I can feel her fingers on the bits of hair across my chest. I could tell her about the bags of clothes I donate to goodwill, every two months or so. I go to my shelf and strip the hangers of fancy shirts and slacks that I bought on a whim—cause I wanted to look good—and then I only wear them once and feel out of place then put them back in the closet where they stay till I feel guilty and give them away to thrift stores. Somewhere in downtown mesa you can buy a 80 dollar pair of slacks for 10 bucks, that’s cause of me. I try to open my mouth to tell her these things but she puts her mouth against mine and I feel her tongue, its rough and ridgy. She hasn’t been drinking like I’ve been drinking. She is parched. I can feel my erection grow and touch her thigh and she feels it too and smiles and we move from the floor to the bed where I take off my shirt and slightly tackle her, playfully, like kids. We like to pretend all of this is happening on accident. Her breasts are so strange. I haven’t seen anything like them. The nipples are almost translucent, they nearly blend in with the rest of the breasts, the rest of her body which is pale and glowing under the moon out of my window and I tell her this and we both laugh. Then she rolls me over—-so forceful, so confident—and I just lay there and now I want her to stop for just one second so I can tell her that I’ve done some awful things, that I really have, that I’ve made so many mistakes but I’ve tried to fix it, all of them, one by one, like they are written on a list. I volunteered at a hospital for two summers during high school and not many people know about that because it didn’t amount to anything, I just got high with the help and huffed WD-40 and took the elevator to the upper level, where there weren’t any superiors and took naps on the couches reserved for grieving families waiting to file paperwork. I want to tell her all of this, thinking it will cleanse me, will help me, get me to grow, to change. But I just watch her, her head, her long hair blacker than black, as it makes its way down pass my belt line. Then I look away and close my eyes.